


Our Shared Bondage

by kyluxtrashcompactor, oorsprong



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Kink, Explicit Consent, Fanart, Historical Accuracy, Implied Masturbation, Implied Penetration With Dildo, M/M, NSFRome, Period Typical Attitudes, Ren Had Three Chances to Say No, Roman Era AU, Teasing, Topping from the Bottom, shaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-11 10:55:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7046398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyluxtrashcompactor/pseuds/kyluxtrashcompactor, https://archiveofourown.org/users/oorsprong/pseuds/oorsprong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kylo Ren is a slave, taken from his home six years before by a fresh faced Roman general. He is forced to fight as a gladiator, his life daily in the balance. Unmatched in bravery and skill, Ren finds himself fighting in the Colosseum before the Emperor himself, none other than the same general who had dragged Ren into Rome in chains. One fateful eve finds Ren purchased for the night, his duty to serve the Emperor's whim. It will perhaps afford him an opportunity to avenge the wrongs of his past, or it could be the first step on a road to freedom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Shared Bondage

 

 

Bars. That is his lot. Despite his performance, his grandiosity, the thrill he gives the sycophant crowds, he must always be shut away at the end like some untamed, foreign beast. His cell is barely the footage to allow for him to stretch fully upon his raised pallet, and despite years of this prison, and exhaustion of body and mind, he still tosses furtively, uncomfortable. It is the discomfiture of bondage which will not let him rest and the proud soul that fights both because he must, and because he wishes to take hold of some shred of honor that is within his reach.

Behind him the familiar, dull light of the single wall sconce that illuminates his holding pen flickers, dulling, and the shadows from the bars that fall upon his bronze arm bend, announcing a presence. He turns his head quickly, looking over his shoulder to see what madness this might be at such an hour. He has earned his rest after this day, and the Emperor is not known for gracing his warriors with women for their pleasure.

The slave eyes him curiously through the bars.

“My master sent me for you,” she says, dropping her gaze when his dark eyes meet hers. They are very blue and he wonders where she’s been taken from; what life she would have led if debts or a cruel twist of fate had not intervened. Perhaps she had also been caught in the ever spreading Roman war machine that ground through the free people and spit them shackled into the empire.

The years that had passed since Kylo Ren himself had been torn from his family in a bloodbath are only days in his mind; interminable days full of dust and sweat and heat and a rage that only finds its outlet on the sands of the colosseum.

“I’m Hedea,” she adds quietly as she slips in through the bars and unlocks the chains that hold him. “My master has promised me I will come to no harm so you must do as you are told.”

Ren is immediately suspicious. He knows the Dominus of this school’s slaves like the back of his hand: he has been here for six years, and little has changed. This woman does not belong here. Who is her master?

She trembles slightly as she speaks, clearly trying her best to force some intimidation into her words. It’s almost charming. She unfastens his bindings but leaves the collar around his neck. He has no choice but to follow her.

The school has it’s own private bath and it’s there that she leads him. Curious. He thought perhaps he’d been marked for an appointment with one of the medici on staff.

Hedea beckons him into the steam of the bath and he notices with surprise that two other women stand with clay jars in their hands just inside.

“They will wash you,” the slave instructs him. “I must return.”

He steps forward, fixing his scrutiny on one of the women. He knows her from the audience in the stands in the pit where they train. These are not slaves. They likely have no real status but they must belong to someone in the household as honored daughters.

The one he recognizes steps forward and spreads her arm out in a welcoming gesture.

“Please strip down. We won’t hurt you.”

Her companion titters a little at that. Both women are fresh out of girlhood; bright-eyed and ample with baby fat. They wear simple linens and their black tresses are tied up with bits of cloth. Playing at bathhouse slaves maybe.

There is no such thing as modesty among gladiators, nor as another’s property: he’d abandoned that concept along with his freedom. With a grunt he sheds the leather girdle and his smallclothes, letting them fall to the floor with an utter lack of ceremony. Then he stands there as dully as a plank of wood, letting his feigned disinterest in this curious situation hide his distrust.

The one he doesn’t recognize grins at the sight of him, shameless in her appraisal and then giggles and nudges her friend. The first woman only nods.

“Please step into the water,” she says, “we need to wash you. I’m sorry you won’t get the full bath but the order was to have you ready as soon as possible.”

She stops, looking as though she’s said too much and knows it.

“I mean,” she stammers, “I think the water will be hot enough. We’ll wash your hair. The treatments will take care of the rest.”

Ren’s brows draw down slightly, dark eyes seeking answers he knows will not come from those rouged lips, and simply shrugs. Whatever Fate has decreed for him this night, he has learned his place over the years, and that is to step when commanded and to lie where he is told. He dips a foot in the bath and bites back a sigh at the warm water. How long has it been? Does he even remember a warm bath? Perhaps not.

Sinking in, he finds an edifice and settles upon it, facing forward, as still as stone with his back straight.

The first woman steps into the water just enough to dampen her hem and fills her jug. She sets it on the lip of the bath and waves her companion over. The giggling woman fills her own jug and sets it aside before producing a comb. She comes a little further down the steps and begins to comb through his hair, sliding her fingers against his scalp. She lifts a black lock and studies it, muttering to herself. The comb tugs through a snarl of hair, pulling violently at the roots but once she settles into a rhythm it’s less painful. After a few strokes she examines the comb and continues. He realizes suddenly that she’s checking him for nits.

Ren’s upper lip curls at this;at the pointlessness of it. He will just be back in the blood and dirt tomorrow. It is then, as one of the women’s eyes trail down his tall, well-honed frame, that a sinking feeling boils in the pit of his stomach. Craxus, a fellow gladiator of even more repute than Ren, has described with pride the times he was summoned to be displayed before wealthy dominas, and it is said that they prize and pay well for the chance to be mounted by a warrior. A sudden twinge jolts his nervous system and he shifts in the water, sending ripples out in rings around himself. He almost stands to flee, but the slave collar is heavy on his neck, even if his feet are free.

The first woman raises her hand in a signal to the other and then dumps the jug of water over his head, careful to let it run off the back.

“Tilt your head up,” she murmurs, “there you are.”

She produces a small tin pot from the folds of her linens and begins to rub soap directly on his scalp, massaging it with her fingers. She takes great care to reach every spot, lathering her hands with efficiency.

“Minima!” she snaps. The giggling woman comes forward and tilts his head back again to pour the other vessel of water over his hair. They take turns filling the jugs and emptying them over his scalp until their fingers slip through his tangled mane cleanly.

“I’m going to give you some advice,” The first woman says when he is finally permitted to stand. She licks her lips and begins, obviously running through a prepared speech.

“When you go for the treatment they’ll want to pluck your hair. Don’t let them. Sometimes the ones who are sent… forward… come hairless and he forgets to correct them. They’ll whip the one who does it but by then it will be too late. You have to make the right impression. Tell them you have to be natural.” Her eyes are solemn now. “Good luck.”

Ren frowns at her, and his inclination is to ask questions, but these women are unfamiliar to him, and obviously are not slaves, and therefore he is beneath them. That he is being offered advice by one of them is disconcerting. Pluck his hair? What horseshit is that? Suddenly the confines of his cell seem comforting, and he detests the urge to flee back down the stairs to his cellar cage.

He merely nods once at the girl, indicating his gratitude for her words, for if Ren has learned anything in his time as a slave, it is that he owes the whole of Rome his undying gratitude for each breath he draws and everything between them.

The women each take an arm and flank him as they lead him back up the steps and towards an inner room. Their robes are soaking from the knees down but they don’t seem to notice. The one called Minima sniffs and rubs at her nose with the back of her hand.

The tiled hall before him leads to an inner chamber lit by lamps and an impressive skylight. Inside a wizened old man grins toothlessly at him and pats a large marble slab. Clearly it’s a place to lay down. A table nearby hosts a collection of vials and large tins as well as a spread of costly looking ivory combs.

“You must lay here, son, I’ve been entrusted to get your ready for the big night.” He cackles to himself as he pokes around the vials in front of him.

Ren is even more sure now of his intended fate: washed clean of the odor of sweat and leather, his senses are free to light on the delicacies of the perfumes and other scents adorning the air, and guesses there are few reasons to waste such luxuries on a slave. Either that, or the man means to drug him, or poison his blood to make him weak before the fights tomorrow. Perhaps that is what someone has paid for: to take away his ability to fight, to further the cause of another house’s champion.

He hangs back, and one heel actually shifts in the direction from whence he’d come, steeling himself to whirl and flee back through the baths. It is an impulse that he knows has no purpose, for there are no weapons he would have access to: his gladius is only given to him before he walks from the gate to face an opponent in the ring.

Before he can react, however, one of the women touches his elbow, her fingers surprisingly strong and cautioning. Ren glances at her, and she nods only once, little more than a tilt of her chin toward the ivory slab; cold and medicinal.

Big night, the old man had said. Is he to be sacrificed then? He might make a glorious sacrifice, better than a bull, for he was worth his weight in gold, as the domina had often expounded.

If that is to be his end then he would walk toward it with his head held high, and perfumed, if these heathen bastards preferred it. What choice did he have?

Ren steps forward with a sigh that does not pass his lips, nor quiver across the muscles of his shoulders, and he sinks down upon the bench, refusing to wince at the chill it infects upon his naked genitals. He adjusts his body until he is flat upon the surface, keeping his gaze trained on the ceiling.

The old man waves the women away and then comes to stand over Ren. He’s scrawny and ragged looking but his eyes are sharp.

“Don’t worry, Eurycles will put you right. I’ve been taking care of gladiators since long before your time. They gave me my freedom because of my magic hands.”

He holds his bony hands up to the light and titters a little.

Eurycles shuffles back to the table, uncorks a vial of something fragrant, and rubs it in his hands. Then he returns with a pot that he places on the slab next to Ren’s hip.

“Don’t knock this over, it’s worth more than your life.” He attempts a ghastly grin and dips his fingers into the pot. They come out glistening with oil which he proceeds to rub all over Ren’s chest. He works it in with surprising strength, careful to attend to the muscles he can reach and kneading away the tension in his chest and neck. He drifts down to Ren’s stomach and his touch is so sure that there’s no wave of tension or nausea from having the skin there manipulated. His wrinkled hands return to the pot to give the same treatment to front of Ren’s thighs and calves. He hums to himself as he works and closes his eyes.

Grizzled and toothless man or no, Ren would have traded his left eye-ball for such a base extravagance as this years ago if given the opportunity. Too long has he fought, bled, been stitched back together. Too long has he been stuffed inside a cell not fit for rats to nest comfortably. Gradually, he feels something like the lull of a daydream on a cool summer afternoon steal over him, and his eyes drift partly closed. He allows himself to enjoy this one small grace before whatever awaits him makes itself known.

Eurycles works his way back up and begins to massage the interior of his groin. The touch is entirely perfunctory, clearly to loosen the muscles there. The old man carefully returns the open pot of oil to his table and then comes back with a small vial set with tiny stones and the smallest of the ivory combs.

“I have been at this job for more years than you care to imagine so there’s no need for any prudishness. I’m not going to pluck you but I can’t send you forward untidy. It will go easier if you relax and close your eyes.”

Eurycles draws the stopper from the vial and a strong musky scent fills the air. It’s heavy but not unpleasant. He lets the stopper drip over the comb and then rubs the scent in with his fingers until the teeth of the comb gleam. Without a word of warning he begins to work it through the tangle of Ren’s pubic hair.

Ren’s eyes fly open at the sensation, the oddity of it, and he glares down at the old man. At last, his curiosity can stand no more. Besides, the wizened husk had declared himself a former slave.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demands.

“Hmm.” Eurycles ignores the question for a moment as he tidies the thick nest of hair and perfumes it.

“It’s done,” he says finally. “And as for why? Well in my day they all wanted them plucked. I don’t know the new fashions. Don’t pretend to understand them. But he wants his men to look like men. And as for this,” he hold up the vial and taps it with a blunt fingernail, “well I suppose if a curious nose were to poke around thereabouts you might have something nicer to offer than the sweat of your groin.”

He laughs harshly and slaps Ren’s thigh.

“Turn over.”

Ren snorts, gripping the sides of the stone slab like his life depends on it. “Like Pluto. And who is he?”

“Turn over,” Eurycles demands. “As for he, why they don’t tell you a thing do they? Don’t you know you’ve been bought for the night? You have to look presentable. Show me your back or I won’t hesitate to have you whipped.” The old man glares at him.

Ren takes his measure, decides that if this man doesn’t have the power to have someone of Ren’s value striped, whomever pays for his services surely does. Glaring back, the gladiator turns slowly, presenting his backside, tucking forearms beneath his chin, and wedging his thighs close together.

The old man mixes two vials together into a pot and brings it over to begin the process on Ren’s back. His hands gradually release the tension with such precision and care that the gladiator barely notices when those bony fingers knead his buttocks on their way down to his legs.

“Hmph!” Eurycles says finally. “You can sit up. It was my pleasure to attend to such a lovely specimen as yourself.” The old man pinches Ren’s arm with a smile that might be friendly. “Go on, just down the next hall.”

Ren turns his head over his shoulder, eyeing the old man as though this might be some sort of trick, but he is no longer paying attention to the gladiator, absorbed now in replacing caps to vials and sorting them.

Sitting up, Ren almost feels light-headed and definitely sleepy. Probably not a good combination for having been “bought.” Whatever that means.

Stepping quietly down the hall, he barely glances at the frescoes, though he lets his fingers trail over them because he likes the way the glassy tile feels beneath his calloused pads.

The chamber he enters is even smaller and there’s a wooden door at the end. Behind it he can hear the sounds of the larger communal bath that the laborers use. Adjacent to it is an arch that leads to a marble hall. It’s lit only by torches. In the chamber stands a formidable looking woman in stately dress. A wig of copper curls flecked with gold sits primly atop the crown of her head.

“I have been assigned to dress you for your audience. You have been purchased for the evening but my master is generous. You were bathed and treated with no expectation of further action on your part. Do you understand? But if you permit me to dress and adorn you then you are signaling your agreement to continue. Certainly by now you realize what’s expected of you.”

What is expected of him. Ren realizes, indeed, by now. His dominus, the master of the school, does not follow the Roman custom of inviting women and men among his household with the expectation that they might pay for an evening with a hero of the gladiatorial ring. Perhaps he lacks imagination, but Ren has never minded. It is not his preference to be twice a slave.

But this, this intrigues him: the notion of a choice. The woman before him, obviously of far richer quality than this house, has it upon her lips that Ren is in possession of the will to agree or disagree with the idea that he shall be used for other purposes than to bleed in the arena. Possibilities flicker through his mind: a praetor? A rich widow? No married woman would purchase the affections of a slave, gladiator or no. One is preferable to the other by far, but what he wants the most when his lips move to answer this woman is to have the power of selection. To decide his fate. It is a taste upon his tongue that Ren has long forgotten.

“Do what you will,” he says.

She nods.

“You will not regret your choice. The generosity of the one in whose name I act extends beyond these trivial luxuries. You would be wise to remember that. It might serve you in the future.”

She opens a trunk behind her and pulls out a few linens until she finds what she’s looking for. On a small bench beside it she places a brush, a mirror, a few small pots, a glass jar of oil, and a small white stick.

“Come forward and let me examine you.”

The regal woman stands at least a head shorter than he but she walks around his naked body with a look of intense scrutiny. She lifts a white hand to his face and tilts his chin up to gaze under it and then down to look into his eyes.

“You are remarkable. The scar does nothing to mar your beauty. It’s a shame about the spots. I don’t think I can cover them all. Well. You’ll only need a little of what I have to offer.”

She sets the items pulled from the trunk back on top of the lid and motions for Ren to sit on the low bench.

After brushing his hair until it shines she rubs some oil from the glass jar into her hands and kneads them through his thick locks. It smells heavily of roses. She makes a noise of appreciation at the overall effect and then opens a tiny tin to show him the black paint inside.

“This is kohl. It will feel strange. Fix your gaze on a point just over my shoulder and do not watch my hands. If you can stand in the ring during combat without flinching you should be able to keep your eyes open long enough for this.”

She laughs at her own joke and picks up the white stick, swirling it around until the tip is coated black. The feel of it tracing his eyes is maddening but she works quickly to apply it, bringing up her pinkie finger only once as though to swipe some away.

“Very good.”

She wipes her hands on a small piece of fabric and opens another tin. There’s a fragrant paste inside and she rubs a little under his jaw and just behind the ears.

“I would bathe you asses milk if we had the time. Some ash will have to do.”

The woman dots his face with the offerings of a third tin and rubs gently at his blemishes. When she holds up the mirror he can see that the ash has done nothing at all to hide them and his eyes are ringed with black. The clashing scents she’s applied are fueling the beginning of a dull ache in his head.

“Close your eyes now,” she murmurs. He hears a jar being uncapped and then feels the light pressure of her fingers all over his body as she softly pats at his skin. She trails them over his face and down to rub at his nipples. Her cold hands prod along his waist and then slide back up his chest and down his arms. She turns him around and repeats the process and then brushes her hands up and down his thighs.

“Open,” she says. She holds the mirror out

The hairs along Ren’s legs and arms tickle beneath her touch, and the dust drifts to his nose and he stifles a sneeze. Is this what the men or women of rank favor? Their prizes to appear golden, like statues? Part of him longs to ask questions, but curiosity has been beaten into a small, secret corner of his mind into which he only wanders on lonely evenings. Answers will be provided for him or they will not. Only time will tell.

“You look magnificent,” she assures him. Deft fingers unfold one of the linen’s she’s taken out, revealing it to be a long strip of fabric. She comes forward and ties it around his waist, leaving a length to hang over his genitals. The end trailing off the back is wedged unceremoniously between his buttocks and she pushes his scrotum aside as if he were an animal in order to fold it into a pocket she’s made in the fabric. She ties it up in front with a flap hanging over and nods.

“Perfect.”

Ren’s brows are knitted, and he turns his head to look over his shoulder at his bare rear end and then down at the rather meager strip of fabric that covers him. Is this all he is to wear? Then, he supposes, given what he assumes will be required of him this evening, more clothing lacks necessity. He glances back at the woman dubiously but remains silent.

The dresser makes a gesture with her hands and a slave emerges from the torchlit corridor beyond.

“Bring the lectica. He is ready.”

To Ren she says, “You must sit with your knees up and do not let your back or chest rest against anything. It will keep the gold in place. When you arrive you will be escorted behind a veil. Do not say a word until you are spoken to. Do you understand?”

A bevy of slaves arrives with a gilded lectica balanced among them. One offers his back as a footstool to mount.

“You will not be mistreated. Don’t fear. Wonderful things await you if you serve dutifully.” She spreads her hand to indicate the vehicle, motioning for him to enter.

Ren has seen contraptions like this only from a distance, and the idea of stepping upon another slave’s back to enter it galls him. He grasps the sides of the lectica’s opening, and with his long legs, steps over the man kneeling at his feet, hoping the slave will grasp his meaning rather than take it as insult.

He folds himself uncomfortably as the woman has commanded, though his excellent core balance allows him to retain the position as the transport is jostled and lifted and then begins to move.

Ren has no idea where they are taking him, and he does not know enough about the streets outside the ludus to gleam in which direction they move. He also has little idea what houses of which nobles, for he assumes it is a noble with all this frippery, lie nearabouts.

The journey, to his surprise, does not take more than twenty minutes, and much of it, Ren can tell from the way he must adjust his body to keep from brushing the lectica walls, seems to be uphill. It piques his curiosity, thinking that perhaps he’s seen this house which rises above others.

At last they come to a stop, and the lectica lowers smoothly to the ground.

A pale hand reaches through the curtain draped over the entrance; the hand of a girl. He takes it and lets himself be lead into a magnificent courtyard with high stone walls. All around him a garden flourishes. The girl who leads him by the hand can’t be older than fifteen. She is dressed in the modest apparel of a household slave but her features are startlingly regal. The lectica bearers put down their burden and follow in single file as she leads them up the garden path and to the side entrance of an impressive manor. Other girls emerge silently, holding a fine veil flecked with gold. They drape it over him completely so that it comes down to his knees, holding the sides so that it doesn’t touch his body at any point.

“You will follow,” the regal-looking girl says with a heavy accent that he cannot place.

From the way the veil is held he is able to see her heels as she walks in front of him. Surrounded by the pack of women he will be doubtless hidden from view, though he doesn’t hear anyone pass. The floor beneath his feet is polished marble, soothingly smooth and clearly very costly. After a long walk they pause and he hears the muffled sweep of a curtain being pushed aside. From the vague shadows behind the veil and the dimming light he can tell he’s in a much smaller corridor. After a few twists and turns he is ushered through a heavy door and his toes sink into a thick rug. The veil is whisked away and the lead girl smiles at him.

“You will await. My master comes.”

As the girls file out one of them impudently brushes a finger over the muscles of his abdomen between flecks of gold and giggles before she disappears through the door.

This room is small, though certainly not cell-like. It is large enough for a bed, which Ren frowns at, and a wooden chair embossed with gold and bearing a red cushion. The walls are painted a pale blue, and there are likenesses engraved with gold paint of the faces of Roman gods. Candles are lit on wall mounts in the corners, chasing away shadows with tall, unwavering flames, for there is no window to create a draft.

Ren does not know where to place himself in the room, and skirts the bed the stand near one candle sconce. It doesn’t occur to him the the light makes him glitter like a gemstone, and he struggles with what posture to adopt. He begins to cross his arms, because he is both nervous and irritated, but stops himself lest he rub off this ridiculous dust. At least his backside is not on display for the doorway.

As he waits he instinctively glances about for anything which might be used as a weapon. It’s an idle, ridiculous thought, because were he to harm anyone that commanded such wealth, or any free citizen of Rome, he would be put to death. He has, however, spent years with a need to constantly defend himself, and it is ingrained to his core. There is basin of water and rose petals on a iron tripod. a wooden table with a bronze urn, and heavy goblets etched with scenes Ren cannot make out from his position in the corner. They likely hold wine, which Romans cannot seem to live without. The only other item is a small, lidded ceramic vase the size of his palm. He is considering how heavy the wine goblets might be when the door opens once more.

The man who enters the room is unremarkable but his simple dress is fine. It is unclear whether he is a slave.

“Gladiator,” he addresses Ren directly. “By now you may suspect whose household you have been brought to. Your service here will be amply rewarded should my master look upon you favorably. You will stand at attention when he enters the room. Make no sound and no move of deference, regardless of what you see. In this room there are different rules that you must learn. My master is not the type to enjoy sycophants for lovers. Mark his station. Bend to his will. But do not make a show of it. The less said the better. My master enjoys it when it is not… too easy.”

The man bows in a way that Ren suspects is mocking and then leaves him. After a moment the door swings open again to admit a figure that causes him to take a step back.

This man is as tall as he. His tunic is trimmed with gold and over his toga he wears the purple paludamentum clasped with a jeweled fibula; the mark of the emperor.

Ren would have recognized him anywhere, both from the memories of his past when this man was but a general and from the dozen times Ren had fought before him in the colosseum and obeyed his command with upturned or downturned thumb, reflecting the whim of the crowds Ren excited time and again for his pleasure.

Every muscle in Ren’s body tenses, for Emperor Hux’s face is burnt into his memory as the man who commanded the legion which subjugated a teenaged Ren’s village seven years ago and brought his people to Rome as slaves. They slew his father and his mother had vanished. Ren recalls this same passive expression, the lips that never smiled, the eyes that were strange like green ice, and the dusting of freckles on pale skin that made him look so much younger than his years.

It is a good thing that the slave has given Ren instructions not to bow, because so caught in memory is he that he would have neglected to. He simply hovers in the corner, body taut and at natural attention, and stares back at the emperor of Rome with something bordering on hatred.

The emperor barely glances at him as he enters the room with a shocking degree of familiarity; as though he is simply a man coming home to his modest household. He removes the cloak of office and drapes it over the chair. The tunic beneath, though richly embroidered, is deceptively simple. His hair is combed straight with a thick fringe, the same way he presents himself to the public.

“Well.”

Emperor Hux glances around the room and then heads for the wine. He takes a sip out of one of the goblets.

“You will drink.” He indicates the other. “It’s not drugged. I have no use for such tactics. They are unbefitting someone of my station.”

He finally meets Ren’s eyes and his gaze holds the other’s unflinchingly, as though the thought would never occur to him that Ren might disobey.

Ren does hesitate, just long enough to see the emperor’s cold eyes narrow, and then he moves, crossing the small space to retrieve the cup. To his annoyance, it is already full, so he cannot gauge immediately whether it would be sufficient to bash this bastard’s skull in. How often he’d thought of such an opportunity in the ring. For Hux to come off his high platform and face him in combat.

Ren arrogantly drains the entire cup and then balances it between his fingers, measuring. Perhaps the urn would do. He keeps Hux’s gaze throughout, such as no slave would dare, but hadn’t the emperor’s man said that Hux did not appreciate sycophants? Without being asked Ren grasps the urn and pours himself another cup, and takes a long drink.

Hux raises a brow and the hint of a smile crosses his lips.

“Not shy. Good. Though I hope you don’t feel that you have to drink yourself into oblivion to enjoy this. I’m not in the habit of mistreating those who are brought to this room. I think you will find,” he adds, tilting Ren’s chin up with a finger, “that I can be very generous when properly motivated.”

The emperor runs his finger down the gold-flecked neck presented to him and lets it trail down between Ren’s pectorals before bringing it to his face to examine the gold dust accumulated there.

“You would be beautiful without the adornment, but a man has his tastes. I’ve watched you in the ring for a long time. I don’t suppose such a thing occurs to you when you’re fighting for your life. Perhaps you’re immune to vanity; to imagining your emperor moved to lustful thoughts over the way you disarm your enemies before destroying them. I will never tire of seeing you do this for my pleasure. So I suppose this is just another way you can serve my appetites.”

He drains his own glass and sets it down.

“Go ahead. Drink. I imagine you’ll need the refreshment.”

Ren does as commanded, but not because he is compelled. He needs something to keep his tongue from snapping the words that hover there, to refute the idea that this man is generous or has any inclinations toward treating others well. While Ren is hot-tempered he knows well enough that such disobedience will do nothing other than get him killed, or worse, and he has been a slave long enough to know there are many things worse than death.

He sets the wine cup aside, all but glaring at Hux, and says in a gravelly tone: “And what appetites are those?” He omits honorifics purposefully, hoping that, at least, will goad him.

Instead Hux seems pleased that he’s gotten the point and nods briefly.

“I know what they say about me; that I’m given to exotic tastes. Nothing could be further from the truth. I only care for men. Perhaps it’s unseemly but there it is. No woman or boy will ever be permitted to share this room with me. If the emperor himself cannot lay down the law for his personal tastes then who can?

I am told that your handlers have noticed you ignore women. I sincerely hope it is because you and I are of a kind.”

Ren thinks of denying the truth, just to test him. To see if he will force himself on him anyway, but there is little doubt the emperor’s sources are thoroughly acquainted with Ren’s proclivities, which, after six years, are no secret. Were he to call them liars to the emperor’s face there would undoubtedly be other consequences.

There is also something in the other man’s face that suggests to Ren that he would not force him, in fact, and that intrigues him.

“Yes,” he says shortly, letting his own eyes flick down along the lines of the emperor’s body beneath his rich tunic, as though Ren were judging his mutual interest. He raises his gaze lazily back to Hux’s and lifts an eyebrow.

“That is well,” Hux says, almost purring the words. “They say a man should be diverse in his love; giving to men and women without favor. I say to Orcus with them all. What use have I for the soft flesh and loose hole of a woman when I could have this?” He juts his chin towards Ren as he removes his toga and carefully pulls off his tunic, leaving himself bare but for a gauzy undergarment tied at his hips.

Undressed the emperor is far less remarkable; lean and slender with narrow shoulders. His bearing, however, suggests all the confidence of his station.

“Lie down on the bed on your belly. Don’t hesitate to follow my lead. I abhor hesitation.”

Not much of a seduction technique, Ren thinks to himself, one corner of his lips twitching in a reflexive frown. But then why should he expect that. He has been, how did they say, bought for the night.

He steps around the emperor and lies down as commanded. The blanket covering the bed is remarkably soft, so much more than the patchy, harsh wool that he is given to sleep with. Despite his lack of hesitation, the suggestion of this position gives him a flutter of unease, for since his youth, when he was too small and too inexperienced to have it another way, he has not presented himself to another in such a manner.

Hux, for Ren cannot think of him with the lofty title of emperor now, climbs up on the bed and straddles the backs of his thighs. Gentle fingers trace over his shoulder blades, slip down over his waist and trail lightly over his buttocks.

“Aren’t you magnificent.”

He startles a little when Hux leans down to brush his hair aside and mouth softly at the back of his neck.

“Is our custom of kissing still strange to you?” Hux presses his lips against one earlobe while pinching the other between nimble fingers. “I had hoped you mind find it enjoyable. Especially the sharing of moisture from the lips. All civilized men should engage in the practice.”

His mouth moves lower to trail kisses between his shoulder blades. Warm hands caress his arms, paying special attention to the curves of his muscles, the bend of his elbow. Each touch is slow and deliberate, as though he is accustomed to taking his time.

Ren’s muscles had been kneaded into blissful relaxation earlier by a pair of skilled hands, but had worked their way into tension again through anticipation and then the shock of seeing that the man who purchased him had also been responsible for taking his freedom. However, Ren cannot deny that the curious wetness of lips against his skin and the near reverent, soft fingers seem to possess some sort of magic. It begins to dawn on him at last that the ruler of the most powerful empire on earth seems to be just as ensorceled with him. That is a sort of power Ren has never imagined.

He feels he should respond in some way, but the way sexual release takes place in the ludus is nothing that would suit this man, Ren imagines. Were he to use his wiles, he’d have Hux on his knees with himself behind him.

Hux’s lips brush his neck and an involuntary, treacherous sound of pleasure escapes Ren’s throat.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Hux murmurs against his back. He slides down a little more and sinks his fingers into the flesh of his buttocks, kneading them in a way that seems more geared to his pleasure than to relaxation. A finger hooks in the twisted cloth between them and tugs at it, working the knot the dresser tied. Soon he’s parted from the constricting loincloth in the back, only the front pressed against his groin preserving his modesty. Hux sweeps a finger between the cheeks on display for him and nudges against his hole with clear intent.

“But I won’t claim my prize until he’s eager for it. Turn over.”

Hux shifts to sit behind him on the bed, waiting for his order to be followed.

Ren rolls over without consideration this time and realizes with a small twinge of irritation at himself that he is already half hard beneath the loincloth, the bulge obvious beneath the thin fabric. The gladiator’s eyes trail down Hux’s body, finding he cannot help but admire the narrow waist, the perfect, pale skin. It takes self control not to reach out and jerk him into his lap.

As he sits back Ren notices that Hux is now flecked everywhere with the gold dust, even his face and hands. The sheets must be soiled with it. Hux reaches out to pull the useless undergarment Ren’s been left with gently away from him. He balls it in his hands and to Ren’s shock holds it to his face and inhales deeply. When he tosses it away his eyes are brimming with renewed desire. He idly strokes the thatch of black hair at Ren’s exposed groin and then crawls back over him.

“Perhaps you need a little more persuasion?” Hux says, leaning down to nip at his jaw and down his neck. One hand steadies him against the bed and the other reaches down and teases maddeningly at Ren’s cock, just a tickle, as though inviting it to harden further.

The touch sends lightning through Ren’s shaft, down his thighs, and up to coil in his belly. He growls softly in frustration that this man is stealing such reactions from him. He wants to be repulsed, to throw him off and drive that urn into his pretty red skull for what he’s done, but instead he finds his hands on the backs of Hux’s thighs, thrusting his hips up in search of friction against him.

“Is that what you want?” Hux whispers against his collarbone. He takes Ren’s cock in one hand and works it gently, coaxing a drop of precome to the tip. Ren is rendered speechless when Hux dips down to kiss it away.

“Is it shameful where you come from?” Hux asks with a wicked smile, “Or did the men open their mouths to you? Have you never been kissed there?”

Ren considers lying, and saying that no, he’s never had his dick sucked, but something tells him not to lie to this man.

“Not like this,” he says instead, voice husky. The hands on Hux’s hips slide up, daring to cup the emperor’s buttocks in his palms. They fit neatly, like they were formed perfectly for Ren’s wide palms.

Hux visibly shudders at the touch and bends his forehead to Ren’s.

“You dare,” he says breathlessly. “Shameful,” he adds, “taboo, for a slave to handle his master so impudently; for the most powerful man in the world to permit a slave to fuck his mouth as though he were a whore. But in this room, it is permitted.”

He bends down to press his lips against Ren’s, still wet from the taste of his dripping cock.

Ren reacts to the taste of himself on Hux’s lips viscerally, biting down on the bottom one almost hard enough to draw blood. He rakes his fingers up Hux’s back to his shoulders.

“Ahh...” Hux cries out, eyes squeezing shut as his breath comes in ragged gasps. He leans over Ren like a predator sizing up his prey and then plunges down to sink his teeth into the gladiator’s shoulder, a possessive grunt pushing against Ren’s skin as it breaks.

Ren’s mouth parts on a silent breath of pain and surprise, but it quickly fades into pleasure at the fact that he is allowed to handle his ruler in this manner. Hesitant to voice a request, he suggests his great desire for this man’s mouth on his cock by capturing Hux’s wrist and guiding it between them until fingers grasp it. Instead of asking, he makes a low noise of yearning against Hux’s neck, nips the skin gently, and laves the tiny mark with his tongue.

“Vulgar brute,” Hux murmurs as he eagerly pulls back to tend to Ren’s cock, “enticing me with your body, enslaving me with the sweet scent between your legs. Do you intend to tame your emperor?”

He leaves the questioning hanging as his mouth claims Ren’s erection, swallowing him until he nearly gags on his length. He pulls back a little and closes his eyes as he sets to work, pumping the base with his hands as his mouth sucks eagerly at the engorged organ.

Ren is mesmerized, refusing to allow his eyes to drift shut as they threaten to. If anyone ever spread the word that Emperor Hux had opened his mouth for a slave’s cock, he would be damned. It is a vision Ren wants to keep with him for all time. Indeed, he looks impossibly alluring this way, eyes closed, lips swollen and pink from the burn, cheeks flushed and hollow, swallowing Ren’s length with obvious pleasure. Though they are inaudible above the wet sounds, Ren can feel the way Hux groans for it in the vibrations that shiver along Ren’s shaft. He cannot help himself, and reaches down to push his fingers back through that perfect, exotic red hair, mussing it, making him look half his age.

The emperor continues his ministrations, twining his fingers in the dark curls between his legs in an oddly comforting gesture. One finger slips down to trace his scrotum before trailing beneath it to press at the little furl between his buttocks.

As the pressure in his cock builds, Hux redoubles his efforts, as though he’s desperate to have his hands and mouth on every little node of pleasure he can find.

Ren begins to writhe beneath him, shifting his hips, digging them down into the bed as though to escape that delicious mouth lest he be accused of having no stamina. How much more of this he could take, looking down at this scene as the sensations lance through him, he does not know. Finally, he rather brutishly coils two fingers into the binding of Hux’s undergarment and tugs, easily snapping the coil so that the emperor’s own cock spills heavily against his own thigh.

“How much more… ahh… eager would you like me to be?” Ren breathes, fingers seeking to touch Hux, to stroke down his length and feel the slickness at the tip.

The emperor groans loudly as he’s freed from the garment and his eyelids flutter with pleasure as he continues to take Ren’s cock, squeezing the base a little as the orgasm crests.

He palms at his own erection, wetting a finger and slipping it back against Ren’s hole, slick and teasing, as Ren begins to spurt into his mouth.

Ren’s eyes slam shut and his head tilts back with a cry of release and shock and filthy satisfaction at the fact that his seed is in the emperor’s mouth, spilling over his tongue and dripping down his throat. He realizes he is mouthing supplications to the gods and bites his lip, groaning. He looks down blearily, blinking, waiting to see what Hux does. If Ren is in trouble for this offense.

Hux leans back on his calves and brushes a hand through his sweat-drenched hair. He stands on shaky legs, ignoring the ripped undergarment that falls away, and walks to the basin full of water and rose petals beside the bed. As he splashes some on his face he spits discreetly onto the floor and rubs at his lips. When he turns to Ren his eyes are hooded but a smile stretches across his face.

“Filthy creature… the audacity.”

The emperor crawls back onto the bed, bringing the small ceramic vase he noted earlier.

“Back onto your stomach,” he orders Ren. “I wish to claim my prize.”

Ren longs to wrap an arm around Hux and pull him down and kiss him, to taste himself on an emperor’s tongue, to have that stored in his memory as his own prize, and he wonders what reaction he would receive. His eyes flick to Hux’s lips and back to his eyes, hesitating to roll over just a moment too long.

“What’s this? Don’t you trust me to take care of you?”

He leans in to press the softest kiss to Ren’s mouth, flavored with rosewater and the heady taste of his own release.

“Haven’t I just made a vile spectacle of myself attending to your pleasure? Aren’t you--”

Ren’s eyes are so lust blown that Hux’s image is blurred at the edges, and suddenly he doesn’t care what he’s saying anymore. Wrapping a hand around the emperor’s head, he tugs him down to his lips, kissing him hard, pressing inside that hot mouth to memorize the taste of himself on Hux’s tongue. His other arm slips around that narrow waist, holding Hux to him, wrapping a leg around one of the emperor’s calves. Gods how he wants to flip him over and fuck him. Muscles tense to do just that, gods be damned.

Hux growls at the gesture and sucks the tip of Ren’s tongue as he vies for dominance of the kiss. He finally surrenders to Ren’s insistent groping, running a hand down to press against the gladiators sweat-slick buttocks; impelling him to rut against him.

When he pulls away he’s panting loudly.

“Is it for you own glory?” he demands, searching Ren’s eyes intently. “Or out of love for your emperor?”

Ren understands in that moment what’s being asked of him, and his heart thuds in his chest, stomach clenching. Hux senses his want, is giving him permission, and Ren suddenly wants to know with all his being if Ren is alone in this experience and if not, whose bellies he can shove a blade through.

He does not answer Hux with words, for they are not needed. Instead he uses the leg hooked over Hux’s calf and the easy fluidity of his strong physique to tilt the emperor’s lithe body to the side, rolling with him so that Hux is now pinned beneath him. His cock is already swollen, balls tight, as though this is enough on its own to bring him off: submission from the master.

He grinds down, feeling how hard Hux is as well, and he were any other man Ren would have taken him roughly, without regard for preparations, for that is how things were done when time was short. And part of Ren still wants to hurt him. But now his eyes dart to the small vase in those delicate fingers. With self-restraint he forces himself to his knees, Hux’s thighs spread before him, and holds his hand out for the oil.

Hux stares up at him, panting a little.

"Gladiator, even in this room, this taboo has never been broken. Do you understand? Ren."

It is the first time Hux uses his name.

"What we do now defies the laws of gods and men. This is the highest form of worship your emperor has ever been offered. Do you still wish to honor me thus?"

He licks his dry lips, huffing and flushed at the shame of it; his own desire running unchecked, no doubt at the thought of being taken roughly by the gladiator as no man has ever done; held down by his powerful body in a role-reversal to blaspheme everything Rome holds sacred.

“Take this vessel from my hand, if you dare.”

Ren is still for a moment, internally reeling at the sound of his name on Hux’s lips, and the admission that the emperor has never allowed this before. There is something attempting to appear stern in the emperor’s facade, but beneath that is raw need, hunger. He wants him, slave or not. Ren wants to ask why me, but is afraid that will be crossing a tenuous boundary. Instead he leans forward just enough to grasp the vase, which Hux relinquishes with no resistance. He uncaps it, holding it over Hux’s groin as he tips the liquid inside over his fingers. A viscous oil coats them, shimmering in the candlelight as the runoff drips onto Hux.

Recapping the bottle, Ren sets it aside on the bed, propped upright against a pillow, and then slips his hand between Hux’s legs. Swallowing thickly, head spinning at this offense to Rome, he slips his oiled fingers over the length of Hux’s cock, smearing the spilled oil from tip to base in one long stroke before he palms the emperor’s balls. Merely feeling the shape and the heaviness of them, Ren’s fingers move on, sliding along the cleft of his ass, past his entrance and back, until his middle finger hovers there.

Writhing with pleasure, Hux makes a small noise in the back of his throat as Ren handles him, He gazes up through translucent lashes, jaw going slack with arousal.

“Take what no one has dared to take,” he whispers up at Ren, hips bucking a little to push his most sensitive spot against Ren’s seeking fingers. He looks like a man who’s been waiting his entire life for this moment to arrive. Perhaps he has.

Ren traces the ring of muscle with his fingertip, slicking it well before slowly sliding inside just enough to stretch him, to let him become accustomed to the different sensation. Hux’s hips rise, and Ren sees the taut muscles of the emperor’s belly tighten. With his other hand, Ren smooths that soft, flat plane, waiting to do more until he feels Hux relax, and then he pushes the finger in to the first knuckle.

Hux closes his eyes then, Rome’s great orator reduced to incoherent whimpers with each soft thrust of Ren’s fingers, brow furrowed, arms askew above his head.

Ren is no veteran at preparing… virgins, he realizes with a heady flush of desire, nor has he had one in his time. Part of him wonders if he is dreaming, and the other part how he could have gone from wishing to kill this man to wanting him so badly he feels dizzy for it.

At last, Ren pushes his finger all the way in, past the resistance of the muscle, and feels Hux open for him. His cock pulses with need, wishing to dispense with this gentleness and seek yet more release between these flushed thighs. Indeed, Ren notices the emperor must have stern self-control in his daily business, for his skin pinkens so deliciously when aroused.

Impatient, Ren draws the first finger out and adds another without preamble, his skin prickling with lust as Hux groans and his fingers fist in the bedding. He works him open, his pace erratic as he wants to watch the emperor writhe on his cock instead but also wants to please him. He searches with fingertips for that sweet spot, like some golden treasure his slave’s hands should never be allowed to touch.

“Though I don’t begrudge you your tenderness,” Hux says when he’s able to catch his breath, “you should know I’m familiar with this type of affection. It’s true no man has ever been permitted this, but,” he gasps as Ren’s finger hits the right spot, “There are other ways to ease the passage. Y-you don’t have to be gentle.” He bites at his lip, clearly caught in a surge of pleasure.

Ren’s eyes widen slightly as he imagines what ways the emperor is referring to, but he spends little time on the thought. Instead, he withdraws his fingers abruptly.

“Good,” he says, smirking. “I’m not, you may have noticed, inclined to be gentle.”

Ren reaches for the bottle of oil once more, and this time uses it to liberally coat his cock, heavy and desperate to be sheathed, and tilts the bottle over to pour the liquid over Hux so that it runs down the cleft of his ass. Again, the bottle is set aside, and Ren maneuvers Hux easily and quickly onto his belly, earning himself a surprised grunt. Grasping both hips, Ren jerks him roughly onto his knees. Keeping one hand upon him, Ren guides his cock to Hux’s entrance and offers him the sort of treatment common to his kind: with one sharp roll of his hips he is fully inside him. It is all in a matter of seconds, before Hux has a moment to refuse or pull away.

Hux exhales loudly and makes a noise of discomfort at the initial penetration. After a moment of adjustment the sounds that escape his lips turn pleasurable again and he pushes back relentlessly, surprising Ren. No words pass between them now but Hux is unusually vocal; either no one is around to hear them or he’s unconcerned about being heard. The bed creaks as the emperor receives each thrust.

Ren plunges into Hux’s slick heat repeatedly, the sound of wet flesh slapping together joining the rhythm of the bed frame. Each volumable cry of pleasure he forces from the emperor’s throat quakes through Ren and builds in his belly, He suddenly imagines filling Hux with his seed, pictures it dripping from him when he pulls out, and Ren has to stop for a moment, seeing stars. Hux pushes back against him, keening, but Ren holds him firm with one arm looped around his hips, trying to blink away his impending, too sudden orgasm.

“Ren,” the emperor pleads, “I’m at your mercy.”

He struggles uselessly against Ren’s restraining arm, groaning in frustration.

Ren laughs throatily, and lazily strokes Hux’s sweat-sheened back. “You are too pure for such as me,” he murmurs.

“Then dirty me. Make me filthy with your come. I won’t be sated until you’ve found your pleasure inside me,” Hux hisses back, even as he presses against Ren’s touch.

Ren groans as those words go straight to his cock, and he slowly picks up momentum, thigh muscles quivering with every thrust. Hux meets him for each and within moments he can feel that heat in his belly growing, and he is panting raggedly as he jerks Hux’s hips back to meet him faster, harder, until finally his release rips through him. He doubles over, almost sobbing over Hux’s back as he shudders out everything inside him. As he slows he grazes Hux’s slick skin with his lips, tasting salty sweat and clean flesh.

Hux is still grinding back into Ren’s hips, needing his own release, soft whimpers almost begging for it. Ren drops the hand that has held Hux’s hips against him to Hux’s cock and begins to stroke.

“Ruthless beast,” Hux manages between gasps, “touching me so while I’m still impaled on your cock.” The sounds he makes at Ren’s languid pace belie his words, making Ren wonder what his right hand was up to when he pleasured himself with the left. Perhaps widening the passage was something he did for fun.

Ren’s cock is still solidly hard, and once the spasms of his orgasm pass, he slowly begins to move inside him again, eyelids fluttering at how wet Hux is now with his come. He adjusts his hips, looking for the right angle, listening for any indication from Hux that he has found it. Ren’s grip on Hux’s dick is firm, fingers still glistening from the oil he’d used earlier, stroking from the base to thumb the leaking head in time with his thrusts.

Hux lets out a helpless bark of a laugh at the renewed vigor in Ren.

“Such stamina my gladiator has! Can he not be milked dry?”

The sounds that follow issue from between gritted teeth and Ren smugly notes that the emperor himself whines as lustily as any slave when he’s given the right touch.

The tightening and stiffening of the muscles in Hux’s legs and the building in his erection indicate that he’s close indeed. Slender fingers grip the bedding beneath them and he hisses, “defiler”, even as his release looms.

Ren’s lips curl into a small smile when he hears that low moan of pleasure from his emperor, the wanton sigh that punctuates the vile nomer Hux tries to apply. Leaning down with no more caution than he would have used in the ludus, he whispers in Hux’s ear on a stroke: “Defiler? You love it.”

The emperor shouts into his orgasm, Ren’s words unlocking some secret source of desire within him. He spills gracelessly over the gladiator’s large hand, his cries fading as he’s worked through it with Ren’s cock plugged firmly in his stretched hole.

After a moment he slides off that impossibly stiff organ and sinks forward onto the bed, breath heavy, rivulets of Ren’s come leaking from between his legs.

Ren remains on his knees, watching as the most powerful man in Rome falls forward, weak and boneless. As a slave, and a man, Ren knows what it means for Hux to have given in to this desire, to let Ren have him this way. He longs to reach out, to part those reddened cheeks and see himself dripping from that well-used hole, but he stops himself lest he cross some final line.

Instead, he hovers there, realizing that he does not know what to do now. There have been times in his past where he would have stood, donned his clothing once more and left, or collapsed beside his partner and slept. Instead he watches, burning the image into his mind to bring him off on some future lonely night.

“Ren,” the Emperor says finally. He closes his eyes and speaks again, licking his dry lips. “Gladiator, you will stay in the palace tonight. There is a room set aside for your recovery. The girls will attend to you; a warm bath in asses milk and a cool bed for the night.”

Hux slowly rises and turns to face Ren. He looks the other in the eye fearlessly.

“They’ll notice when they wash you down. Come here and let me attend to you.”

He hastily palms his cock and crooks a wet finger in Ren’s direction.

Ren shuffles forward dutifully, eyes hooded with renewed desire. He finds himself thinking the emperor might be the most beautiful creature he has ever seen, and thinks of pushing him back on the bed and straddling those hips.

As though catching the hint in Ren’s expression, Hux grins.

“I’m afraid you’ve worn me out, but perhaps I could persuade your keepers to lend you a little longer.”

He chuckles to himself as he gently pushes Ren back down to the bed with his clean hand. His finger trails between the gladiator’s cleft and gently circles his tight rim. With a sigh the emperor pushes in, grunting in approval as he meets little resistance. He pulls out slowly, slips the finger into the vessel of oil and repeats the action, adding a second finger to open him up.

“You understand, they will be suspicious if you show no signs. I do not take my reputation lightly.”

Ren purrs and lifts his hips, eager for the emperor’s touch. “Will your women be examining be so thoroughly?”

“It is customary for the men to be given a soothing treatment when I send them back. You can refuse of course, but I want you to look the part when they bathe you. Besides,” he adds, voice growing husky, “you look magnificent with my seed dripping from your perfect hole.”

Ren hears the slide of a slick hand over flesh as Hux palms his own wetness again and pushes back in, working him wider with each thrust.

“I would show you the real thing tomorrow evening,” he adds, finally pulling out and wiping his hand on the bed covers. The emperor presses a small, secret, closed-mouth kiss to his leaking furl and then moves to lie beside him.

“I will stay here for the night. They will not disturb me. When you leave you will be taken to your room straightaway.”

Ren rolls over onto his side, gazing at the emperor, his cock half hard again from those slender fingers. He can feel Hux’s sticky seed between his legs.

“You wish to see me again?” he asks, wanting to touch him but keeping his hands to himself.

“I do. I am not one for games. If you do not presume too much then I will continue to treat you fairly. I have enjoyed myself immensely this evening. I will have you again. It is in your power to refuse but I do not imagine you would.”

Hux frowned at the thought.

“Unless of course you enjoy the thought of going back to the school. In which case you will still have my hospitality for the night. I have no interest in a bedding an unwilling man.”

Ren’s belly clenches at the words, “I will have you again,” said with such certainty. “I… yes,” he mutters, swaying forward a bit while his eyes dip of their own accord to Hux’s lips.

“That is well,” Hux says, leaning in to kiss Ren. It’s a chaste kiss but it conveys a depth of feeling that startles him.

“It goes without saying,” Hux adds as he goes to refill his wine glass. “That what is done in this room is between you and I. The consequences for indiscretion would be terrible indeed.”

Hux pours wine into both glasses and takes a prim sip, wordlessly inviting Ren to drink with him before leaving.

Ren shifts from bed and walks naked to the emperor. It occurs to him that he has nothing to dress in to leave this room as he takes the cup from Hux’s hand,almost laughing at the thought of skulking the palace halls naked.

Taking a sip of wine, he looks Hux in the eyes and nods in response to his warning.

“How long do you intend to… borrow me?” he asks with a sly smirk.

“Oh. Indefinitely.”

The emperor drains his glass and sets it on the table.

“Return the way you entered. They will come to you with fresh clothing. I have given a sign in my own way.”

Ren weighs the glass in his hand once more, as he had when he was first waiting on the emperor to arrive. His body is satisfied but his heart is not. He gazes at Hux, suddenly remembering his face as he had been years before, as a young general, commanding the troops that killed the elders of his village and took the adults and children into slavery. Now one of those young men he had doomed stood before him, unremembered except for what Hux would take from this night. Nothing but a creature to be purchased for amusement. How quickly he’d forgotten in the throes of pleasure.

And yet Hux had given him power, a secret. And now he offers him time. Time in which to plot revenge. Slavery, if it offers nothing else, gives one patience.

Ren takes another sip of his wine, meeting Hux’s pale green eyes, bereft of malice, and his resolve wavers when the emperor gives him a small smile.

Perhaps revenge. Perhaps not.

**Author's Note:**

> This story stands alone, but will have further installations.


End file.
